


Sorry, the person you're trying to reach is unavailable.

by MiniInfinity



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-04-12 15:52:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19135255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniInfinity/pseuds/MiniInfinity
Summary: When Wonwoo visits his old university as a published author, what he isn't expecting is a student asking him to be part of her video project. With the idea of reconnecting people with those they lost touch with, he accepts, ponders about Soonyoung's and Junhui's numbers, if his phone saved Jihoon's or Minghao's.But what he doesn't expect the most is to call Kim Mingyu's number for the first time in seven years, the first time after they broke up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why do i have another fic out so soon after updating love stuck?? because why not :)  
> no **warnings** this time!! except maybe that i wrote this on a whim again so it's gross with my bare-minimum edits :'D

Wonwoo ducks into the overhang of the old auditorium, barely scrapes by salvaging his presentations notes by stuffing them into the depths of his coat. He smears off the raindrop that lands on his glasses with a wet pad of his thumb, deems the action futile to begin with. A tease of a scold fogs into the junction of fall and winter, light winds and the downpour of the worst escorting him the entire way. He smiles to himself, though, because it's been years since he last ran for the shelter of his very same auditorium, wondering where he last placed his umbrella and why it wasn't anywhere near him right now. His smile breaks open even more at a memory's bath of Seungcheol nagging him with a playful smile on his face winters ago, wondering the same whereabouts of his umbrella, and lifting his own umbrella higher to take Wonwoo in.

He books it for the art building, where he's been invited by the dean to host a talk about his book, a simple workshop of reaching to that point in a writer's career. He isn't expecting many students to attend his talk. Given the weather brushing everyone inside and under the covers. Given the corner of final exams nearing too close for putting off for something as little as a talk about his new book, survival tips of this university in particular, what it's like to work as an editor and as a writer, a mentor and a revisiting alumnus.

So when he stumbles just meters away from the building that almost settles as a second home into his heart, rain basks into the top of his hair, the rims of his glasses and distorts specks of his vision. With a line of students out the door, huddled under pockets of umbrellas, he sighs in relief that the lecture hall won't be too empty. In fact, he's sure the first front sections will be filled, and there might not even be enough seats for everyone.

 

 

Despite the closing hours up for his talk, he lingers back in the lecture hall, encourages more questions than the event organizer scheduled for. He dismisses her anxieties of his busy schedule, of having to run back to his publishing house to start on pushing another book out to the public. He doesn't mind one bit to stay back with the students.

He doesn't mind reliving, in word, of his university life at the very same grounds. His heart rests relieved to sit back and admit that he feels he relates more to the students gathered here in this lecture hall than his coworkers at the publishing company. He even throws in food spots hidden within the street blocks, secret havens he would find himself caving his notebooks and laptop in for a steaming rice platter, a fresh brew of coffee, and the fear of staining rented textbooks with slurps of his hot noodles. He drowns himself in the tales of his former professors and how each and every one of them still roam around the university, his "He's still teaching here?" and "I loved her class from the start to end" bringing in nods of agreement throughout the seats and the ones that students began on the staircases.

 

 

He waits for each student to walk out of the lecture hall, shakes a firm hand with each of them, and almost begs them that "It's not a problem, don't worry" and "It was my pleasure" to every student that thanks him for today. He even shakes hands with his former creative writing professor, the one who pushed him to intern at his current company many semesters ago.

A laugh filled with all their hearts connects down to the wire of when Wonwoo will do this again, when can he visit his classroom, even just for a five-minute talk to his current students. Wonwoo promises to schedule something in the near future, perhaps next semester will do for now, but it earns a booming, "No, every semester would be great."

He packs his papers into his messenger bag, sighs drifting for the door when he reminds himself that the weather still hails for an umbrella, and he doesn't have one nearby. But it might be a while before he has to bear out in the showers.

It might he a while because just when he thinks he's the only one left in the lecture hall, save for the event organizer just a foot away from the door, he catches a student in the back crevices of seats, camera in her hand, and the sight is all too familiar to him.

Minghao would drag him into his own video projects, have him sit down with their other friends in the quiet study rooms of the library, under the trees in the garden after the botany class returns inside, besides the health building to wait for Junhui to finish his classes. He loved each one of Minghao's video projects, to participate and have his own take in each topic, and he wouldn't mind throwing himself back another seven or so years to relive being in one.

"Mr. Jeon" is a bare exhale as her steps rumble down the stairs. He waits for her at the bottom, under huffs of defeat that she defeated his thoughts of the lonesome. With pants of exhaustion bringing her palms to her knees, a bead of sweat over her brow, Wonwoo assures her to take her time, take deep breaths, he isn't going anywhere until he knows she's okay. "My name is Jieun. I just-I'm doing a video project for my class. It's inspired by one of your books, actually, and I'm wondering if you would like to be part of it."

Wonwoo shrugs, believes he still has nothing to lose. The streak for these video projects has yet to be broken. "What's it about?"

"I want to help people reconnect with those they lost touch with," brims too hopeful, and Wonwoo teems into a hunch as to where this will take him. "If you like, you can call someone you lost touch with. You'll use my phone, so they won't know who's calling."

"I-"

"Would you like to be part of my project?"

And a few faces come up in his mind. Soonyoung, his lifetime best friend whose name props up in venues of Paris. It's been almost a month since their last words to each other, but he can't blame Soonyoung when he's sure practice drags him under and the hours never match up from either sides of the world. There's Jihoon, who he bugged for pens in their poetry classes and even then, they stayed by each other's side on the way up the stage. He can call Junhui, who used to shake the sloth out in him to take a walk around the university's garden or, at least, cut off his caffeine to near nonexistence while he can. Maybe even ringing up Minghao would be nice, just to tell him that he's doing a video project for someone, his first video project outside of Minghao's own.

"Sure," out his lips without another thought. "I'd love to."

Jieun's face beams up to the moons, past the clouds of today, and she pulls out her phone, leans over to place her bag on the table to wheedle out a bulky camera. "If it's okay, Mr. Jeon, can I ask who you have in mind?"

But it isn't Soonyoung's number that prints into the backs of his eyes. It isn't Jihoon's name he would pull his phone out right now to scroll through his contacts list. It isn't Junhui he scrapes the fraying facts of how many digits there are in a phone number from China. It isn't even Minghao he wants to tell about a student following his footsteps without his acknowledgement.

Because Kim Mingyu flashes in his mind, and he doesn't need to grab his phone for a number he weaved into the lines of his palms. He doesn't need to think twice for a number he used to text into the nights for the solid last two years of his university days. He doesn't need to second-guess his memory into a doubtful dullness for the same string of numbers he used to catch over the good morning texts and the same one he would close his phone out after good night texts, over each of Wonwoo's  _I'll be there for you_ , Mingyu's  _I'm coming over_ , and their  _I love you_.

The phone stills at his hand when the trill echoes into the walls of the lecture hall, each sound stealing a seat and spectating the best or the worst thing he can get himself into. His heart marches up his throat when the sound rises and diminishes by the stretching second. But he's not sure if he's relieved or not when the line reaches not Mingyu's voice, but the monotonous, "Sorry, the person you're trying to reach is unavailable."

He coughs out the nerves from his throat, but it bundles him up warmer, plasters the words to the walls of his throat. "Hey, Mingyu." The handful of syllables already punches straight at his heart. It's been years since he last said those syllables, let alone the name, and his eyes search around the lecture hall for a way out. It's the same lecture hall, he notices just now, where he spent his nonfiction workshops penning down stories of Kim Mingyu and Jeon Wonwoo and how the universe brought them together. The only thing is, Jeon Wonwoo never wrote down how the universe pulled them apart, never submitted a composition where he tells the readers how the ending steers far from a happy one, because the Jeon Wonwoo sitting in this class years ago would have never guessed the ending, never considered it into his plot.

"It's Wonwoo," and he feels awful dumb for having to introduce himself into the call. All the words fade and he glances around once more, realizes that just down the hall is that one old elective class of Mingyu's he took in his sophomore year just to clear out credits. The same class that brought Mingyu to his dorm almost every night that semester, sit at his bed, complain about not finding the right words, quiet chuckles over keyboard taps and pencil scraps.

"I know it's been a long time since we've talked, and maybe you don't even live in the city anymore," he sighs, anxiety walling up his chest and trembles out on his exhale, spirals out the next words with the uncertainty of it all, "but I'd like to meet up again and catch up with you."

But Mingyu threw himself into the world of business, and he thinks time won't offer much for Mingyu's hands as much for his own. "I still live in Seoul so if you happen to drop by, maybe we can eat somewhere." The longing for somewhere to rekindle his memories into hits him. "Maybe we can go to that one cafe we used to study in."

But Wonwoo shakes his head, chuckles out the mischief of false hope. "I know you're busy, and it's okay if it doesn't happen. I just hope you're doing well." He nods into the last words, pulls the phone back as his thumb slides over the red button.

"When was the last time you talked to Mingyu?" she asks, eyes dropping not in the wear and tear of classes and the flight down but perhaps in the wear and tear of Wonwoo's story, of running the distance from the present to his memory.

He counts down the years with his one hand, chuckles out the pathetic blues of winter and the piercing cold winds of fall when he realizes he needs his other hand, too. "It's been seven years since I last said a word to him."

"It sounds like he meant a lot to you."

"He did."

 _He does_.

The silence blankets over the two of them and before it stretches out too long, Jieun holds out her hand, thanks him for his time and taking part in her project. It blooms too optimistic for his taste when she says she wishes Mingyu will call him again and if he calls her phone, she will let him know.

 

 

After meeting with all of his former professors, even down to the ones he drilled papers for in his freshmen year, thanks each one of their congratulations for the success of his career, his book, his hours piled onto his desk, the cafe down the street, long into their office hours, the clouds part for a more merciful time of the day. He takes a stroll by himself, passes by each of the buildings, memories breathing him in all at once.

If Mingyu doesn't call back, at least he has the memories of the buildings to accompany him, reminisce about the people he met inside without the people beside him. He thinks that's enough for him right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic was inspired by the jubilee video [We Asked People To Call Their Long Lost Friends](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WKNjqc1uhqc).  
> thank you so much for reading! my hours to scream at me are 24 hours, 7 days a week on [ tumblr](http://seokmins-thighs.tumblr.com/), [twitter,](https://twitter.com/_miniinfinity) and [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/miniinfinity)  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was asked a few times for what happens after wonwoo left the voicemail. i wasn't considering on writing a second part, but here it is anyway  
> not a lot of **warnings** this time except i wrote this in more of a whim than the first chapter so it's kind of...gross lmao

Munich breathes in a new set of lungs into Mingyu's system, but exhaustion is the same no matter what country his company throws him into. He drags his feet to the hotel lobby, glances at his phone for the time. Nine in the morning just breached this part of the globe, and it might be the jet lag, the aligning hours of Lyon and Munich, the mere two-hour flight and the three-hour rush just to make sure everyone sets off from Lyon on time, and the following meeting just a few hours after that sting into his sleep dry.

So when his coworkers nudge him by the shoulder and he scowls more into the early-hour sunlight striking into his face than the bare brush sending him a step off-kilter, ask him if he would like to join them for a drink at such an odd hour, "It's Germany, after all," he strains semblance of a smile onto his face. He thanks them but shakes his head, admits he would rather sleep the rest of the day off. Even with his decline, they offer up a ride if he does change his mind, mentions a second round into the moon hours.

He heads for the string of restaurants at the hotel grounds floor before he drags himself up to his room. Perhaps something closer to his palate of home would satiate the rumble of his stomach, the twist of his guts for something other than drip coffee, airplane coffee, and hotel coffee. Ever since dipping bare toes into the company, he thinks coffee rushes through his veins more than actual blood and the caffeine mixes into the sleep he needs, yet it still manages to gather himself under the sheets.

On his way to the elevator, he passes by bright lights of a bookstore, wonders if this is a nice time to dig into the skin of the city better by the books they read. He doesn't tread a foot in, though, because something in his heart tugs him in the other direction.

His eyes lock point-blank at a night-blue cover, flushes out the attempts to understand the people dawdling in the bookstore and read any other thing besides the name _Wonwoo Jeon_  printed in the front stands. His eyes catch onto the person skimming through the book and a couple more taking a copy into their basket, heading straight for the register.

He blinks at the memory of the name. The name flutters across his chest and his breath is fleeting, weighs more than the air around when someone bumps an accidental hand at his bag and snaps him away from the name. He dismisses the apology in a language his mind can't process with a wave of his hand, a weak smile. At least he knows Wonwoo is faring well-enough for his books to cross the world and the boundaries of their native language.

 

 

He groans the tired fibers of muscles as he pushes the desk from against the wall to right in front of the balcony doors, overlooking morning rays painting the city in the brink of celebration. He pieces out shops preparing for a new day, people walking up the sidewalks with a chatter at their heels and unwritten destinations at their eyes. He sets down his plastic bag, strings silk curtains of the balcony door to the side to crack into the world even more. He plops himself on the chair, picks out the city opening sign by opening sign, echoing step by echoing step, blurring streaks from sunlight's reflection off cars or the wavering of bringing new customers in, welcoming regulars all the same.

He wonders what his family is doing right now, what they could be up to for their night, if they have plans for the day. Maybe he can call them up right now to ask, to say a hello and show them what kind of life respires in Munich. But time differences barely break evening into Anyang, and he's just getting ready for a late breakfast.

Maybe another time.

He starts opening up the plastic bag, crinkles of his hot meal the only thing filling his ears besides the lonesome breaths reminding him of an empty hotel room.

But the lonesome breaths are accompanied by the ring of his phone, familiar _82_ of Korea followed by the rest of the phone number. He lets the ringtone singe at his ears, breaks the cacophony of another bitter morning by himself, drains the unknown caller into the void. He doesn't want to bother with anyone right now, would rather descend into a deep slumber for the rest of the day.

So his breakfast slips past his lips in a flash, he moves the table back to its abode against the wall, and he saves the voicemail for the next time he wakes up.

\----

A couple minutes of staring at his phone, he lingers at the plush of his king bed, sending his phone going back and forth on his chest. He presses his phone awake, more awake than he is, watches his phone brighten to his homescreen a second, third, fourth time. He picks up the voicemail, wonders who would want to bother him yesterday morning, especially at a bustling hour in the other side. He sits up, props himself against the headboard. He brings the cup of water to his lips, his phone to his ear, and the gulp of water barely washes down before he nearly chokes at the "Hey, Mingyu" digging from the pit of buried memories.

He blinks hard to make out each slant of building roofs through the balcony doors, that the car below is going forward, that time isn't going backwards.

When was the last time he heard that voice?

"It's Wonwoo" earns a gasp at the recollection he thought he would never rise back to the surface. It punches him awful because their calls never needed each other's names; they never needed to introduce themselves into the call because they just knew. _Of course, I know it's your voice. How can I forget it?_

"I know it's been a long time since we've talked-" _Seven years does something to a person_ , "and maybe you don't even live in the city anymore-" _I don't even know what I can call my home anymore_ , "but I'd like to meet up again and catch up with you."

_I'd love that. I'd really love that._

Wonwoo's words, Mingyu's own thoughts suffocate him and he's not sure if he wants to keep listening to drown himself or come up for air, hang up right now so he won't ave to remind himself that he lost the sound of Wonwoo's voice in his ears years ago, but his memory remains unscathed.

"I still live in Seoul, so if you happen to drop by, maybe we can eat somewhere." _We can go anywhere._

"Maybe we can go to that one cafe we used to study in." _That sounds perfect._

The bare lift of a smile curves through the tear, doesn't latch onto the drop when it freefalls from his jaw. He wipes at his jaw with the back of his palm, chokes out a laugh that his mind isn't setting up for the world to toy with him. And he chokes even more because his heart never replaced the map to that cafe.

It's the same cafe where Mingyu bought an entire box of pastries to try when Wonwoo couldn't decide between three. The same cafe where Wonwoo drenched himself in the rain to fetch him, when season of exams froze him up into a mess of raindrops and tears all over his face, at Wonwoo's palms and the pressure from himself, from his parents built up to the top of his throat. It's the same cafe they parted from the night Mingyu questioned the rush of his heart in his chest for Wonwoo, the answers when Mingyu pressed his lips on his cheek, only for Wonwoo to return one at his lips.

"I know you're busy, and it's okay if it doesn't happen." _Please let it happen._

"I just hope you're doing well." _I hope you're doing better than me._

Mingyu blinks back the tears in his eyes, but it doesn't work. Not when the phone slips, corner muffles of the case into the sheets that simmers mute into his ears, and his palms hold onto the sob before they drop to his lap at the tremble of his shoulders, intricate details of the wooden headboard digging into his back. He wonders if anyone else cries before this beautiful city.

 _What went wrong, Wonwoo?_ he asks.

 _What went wrong?_  he asks himself.

Everything went wrong when he realized Wonwoo is understanding, Wonwoo is kind, Wonwoo is nothing like him. When his parents scolded him to focus on school the second Wonwoo crossed the stage for his degree, he hated the worry in Wonwoo's eyes when he would sneak off just to rob a hideaway for him, how Wonwoo whispered he thinks he'll get Mingyu in big trouble. Between winter hands puffing the warmest airs out of Wonwoo's lips and into his own palms, how Wonwoo wrapped his scarf around his neck to, at least, send him home warmer than he came to him. How his worries manifested when his parents drove by one night and caught Mingyu walking out of Wonwoo's car.

He inhales to steady his breath, wonders if this is Wonwoo's new number. He picks up his phone again, notices the numbers slide different from the one he saved long ago, that he still saved this whole time.

He keeps the old number, though, and doesn't hitch into the depths of apprehension when he calls the new number.

One ring pounds his heart against the cave of his chest, perspiration gripping onto his palms. _What do I tell him?_

Another ring skyrockets the doubt that it will happen.

A third ring snips his apprehensions from reality, that Wonwoo might not even pick up.

A fourth ring, and Mingyu backs the phone away from his ear, thinks it's too desperate to wish for the same thing for seven years.

"Sorry, the person you're trying to reach is unavailable."

At the prompt of leaving a voicemail, Mingyu sighs out a start before he can turn back, "Wonwoo...hi," and his voice breaks into fragments of a bare sound, doubts he'll put them back together after all of this. "I-I really hope you're doing well, too. I'm in Munich right now and I saw your book here in the store, so I guess you are." The wheeze of bringing some life into the call fades, though, when he remembers the promise of being there for when Wonwoo makes it big in the world of literature. He frees out a miserable chuckle to ease the ache at his heart, the slap that these are their first words in so long, and these words are eavesdrops of a conversation between strangers. Because years ago Wonwoo was nothing close to a stranger to him.

Because Wonwoo opened him up from the outside-in, smirked at the little things he would have never figured out about himself if it wasn't for him. And even with the worst parts of him reaching the outside, Wonwoo never hesitated to reach a hand out, tell him that it's okay if they do. Because years ago, Wonwoo was nothing close to a stranger to him, but what word fits them better right now?

"I'll be in Munich for a few more days before I go back to Seoul." Maybe it really is a desperate call to revive the past, to think it would come true. "Maybe we can catch up, then, if you're still in the area." Mingyu takes one more breath, feathers out the hope into the exhale. "See you soon, I hope."

He hangs up, watches a tear shatter the screen on the red button. He places his phone on the nightstand, slips back into the covers, slips into a useless prayer that maybe, Wonwoo will call him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! i hope it didn't burn your eyes lmao. like always, i'm on [ tumblr](http://seokmins-thighs.tumblr.com/), [twitter,](https://twitter.com/_miniinfinity) and [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/miniinfinity)  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> those subscribed to this fic are pretty hopeful and i guess your hopes are on your side slkdfjdk  
> no **warnings** again except for the fact that this is probably my least-edited work to date and everything is probably gross lmao. i'm sorry if you received a notification for this chapter and opened it and...found nothing. i posted it on accident the first time heheh

A leap of the weekend sends Wonwoo back to his office praying for gravity to pity him and carry the three cup-carriers of hot coffee inside without a spill. It's never something he had to do; he never cared about everyone else's remarks of "That's what interns are for" as long as he got his caffeine fix for the day, even if the cost was another eleven on the side. He lifts a knee to plant a cup carrier at his thigh, wishes for balance to stay with him this once more than any moment in his life as he attempts an uncertain hand for the door. His lips scrunch up in a hidden smile, though, at the "Why didn't you ask for help?" stirring behind him.

His chill mornings into the office, caught between the risk of coffee carnage and spells of wind past the scarf at his neck, kick him all the same. It's always an intern or another editor passing by to help him with the door. So when he turns around and catches the ponytail of the event organizer, he questions what she's here for. But she smiles, tight-lipped in a mockery of his day, tilts her shoulder to the side, and Jieun offers a quip wave of her hand behind her.

Their last conversation strikes him, and he never would have believed he needed to see Jieun so soon. The cardboard carriers almost meet the floor at her promise, salvages a split-second from sending coffee to waste.

 

 

After winding coffee streams through the offices, he apologizes for not buying any coffee for either of them, even if he didn't know they would drop by. His heart wrings worse when he can't remember the event organizer's name, so when Jieun offers a mere "Siyoung" at her direction, Wonwoo protects that name into his mind for this conversation. At the comforts of his own office, he shifts in his seat with the quiet prayer that Jieun isn't really here because of what she promised, that she is here for something else, that Mingyu didn't call her back.

"Mingyu left a voicemail on my phone," drops a weight in him as Jieun begins her own bout of shuffling in her seat, phone at her lap. "I told you I would let you know, but I didn't know how to contact you." His lips part for an empty name, catches her fingers curling more around her phone before she brings the phone up to the desk and to his hands besides the keyboard. "You-you should listen to it, Mr. Jeon."

He shakes off a couple blinks, a nod of his head that's more like a ghost of a tilt, and he watches Jieun press on the screen and place her phone gentle at his fingers. He brings the phone to his ear, his heartbeat to his ear, and the low rumble of Mingyu's voice stings at his fingers more than at his ears. He almost spits out a swear, covers it up with a clearing his throat.

"Wonwoo...hi." The crack of his voice at the end floods in a hint of a few tears that Wonwoo's memory won't free him from.

"I-I really hope you're doing well, too." The stutter is a pang at his chest; it's something Mingyu carried, and still does, when nerves took hold of his shoulders and lead him the way. Wonwoo's mind skimps around to their earlier days of Mingyu's first classes, saturates the entire thought with Mingyu stuttering under the bedsheets about a presentation and a speech right after. With the covers past their heads, all that his ears ring in from the inside is Mingyu's heart racing, only because Mingyu reached over, grabbed his hand with a sheet of sweat, and placed it right over his heart. With each beat at the back of his hand reverberating over cotton and skin, unease of his fingers tighter around Wonwoo's, the memory of a joke, that he held Mingyu's heart in his palm, broke down the hard beats with a crack of a smile.

"I'm in Munich right now and I saw your book in the store, so I guess you are." He used to tell Mingyu it's okay if he didn't want to come to the writing workshops at the university, that because he waited weeks for them never meant Mingyu needed to wait with him. But he loved it when Mingyu sat right next to him in the workshops, pencil at his hand and Wonwoo's tucked behind his ear, assured him that "I want to learn what you love to do."

"I'll be in Munich for a few more days before I go back to Seoul." It's been years since Mingyu's first time abroad without his parents. He remembers encasing Mingyu's jitters of his first plane ride without his parents at his hand, anxiety-ridden taps of fingertips all over the back of Wonwoo's palm their digits together. He remembers the "My parents aren't here to tell me I forgot my bag" through the nervous chuckle and a kiss to the back of Wonwoo's palm without letting their hands go.

"Maybe we can catch up, then, if you're still in the area." The cafe sounds like a nice idea for now. Or maybe they can find somewhere else to meet up, somewhere that doesn't house too many memories--ones that sends his heart fluttering like the first of times or the ones that crush every vein from going.

"See you soon, I hope." _I hope so, too._

The beep for the end of the voicemail snaps him back to reality, that he's not alone in his office, and the blurs at his eyes are real. He tells himself the blurs around Jieun and Siyoung won't go away. "Munich, Munich" winds out his lips frail and almost indecipherable at his own ears before a "Mingyu's in Munich."

He watches Jieun's lips part for something to say, but a sound doesn't escape.

He allows his lungs to scream at the deep inhale in, returns Jieun's phone back to her hands, and wipes the tears from his eyes. He thanks her for letting him know, wonders if it's better if he didn't at all, and he dismisses the sorrow dragging their eyes lower. But it's futile when he runs his hand over his eyes a second time because the tears just won't stop.

He wishes he was alone.

He doesn't need to voice out that wish, though. Siyoung pats Jieun's shoulder, tells her that she will drop her back to school. He shows them the way out, snakes through his office with heavy shoulders and out the building, waves at them as they drive out from the parking garage and into the gray of the city.

On his way back, he kicks a pebble, watches it bounce off the sidewalk and into the street. He wonders if seeing Mingyu again for the first time in years would do any good for them. It's more possible now, but does that mean it's better?

At the cold brewing in his office, a fresh manuscript sits at his desk. His eyes teeter from the tall stack of paper to his phone. Even if he should be reading through that manuscript today, should at least _start_ reading through it today, his digits open and close just centimeters from the phone, open and close for the chance of calling Mingyu.

He tells himself he has nothing to lose, there's nothing to lose, absolutely nothing in the air to lose if he calls Mingyu right now. At this hour, horizons greet Munich a good morning, Mingyu a sweet slumber, he hopes, so he isn't surprised when he calls and it's the "Sorry, the person you're trying to reach is unavailable" that fits itself into a routine.

At the prompt to leave a message, his mind blanks out and he scrambles for something, anything to say. It's a lousy, "Hey, Mingyu, um...it's Wonwoo again." He scratches the back of his head, not knowing if fate is playing for his side at the high chance that Mingyu will listen to this voicemail. "The phone I called you from isn't mine; it belongs to a student." Wonwoo lets out a sound, freaks out to hang up when he realizes it's a croak of a chuckle. "Is the old cafe okay with you?"

Words simmer to a halt at his mind, not sure where else this conversation should go and if he should keep it going in the first place. "I can wait for you after you return from Munich. Just pick a day, and I'll explain it all."

His eyes limp around his office, coughs out a mix of the last of his bare hopes and an overfill of brimming dread. "See you someday. Someday soon, perhaps."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading this mess!!  
> and please, if you like to scream at me somewhere beyond the comments, i'm still at [ tumblr](http://seokmins-thighs.tumblr.com/), [twitter,](https://twitter.com/_miniinfinity) and [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/miniinfinity)  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why am i updating this so soon, you may ask? i'm in a slump for starting (or technically, ending) love stuck so here i am  
> no **warnings** again except for my gross writing because this really is my least-edited work and i want to not be so hard on myself with writing for once hehe if you follow me on twitter, this fic is probably most synonymous to the aus i post there because they're unedited and i write as i think lmao

Nothing beats loneliness like sitting in first-class cabin with all his colleagues and Mingyu having no one around he would want to mouth a word to. Yellow lines of the city careening into the middle of black are his only companions, along with dots of the landing strip flashing at his eyes in a frenzy until he falls back into the seat and the lines of the city become a mesh of yellow, white, and blue in a skeleton of the airport, in a map of Munich.

With privacy of dividers, an entire part of the seat caving in for his comfort and blockage for the world outside his three windows, he waits for the plane to settle to a smooth ride. He waits because he would rather open up the voicemail with Wonwoo's name written on it when everyone else is knocked into their dreams. He would rather open it up when everyone else has to question whether or not they tripped between the border of depths of consciousness and surfaces of reality, and they wouldn't question him and his voice.

He sighs into airplane lights completely surrendering to the night outside. Three windows propped open, all he has to himself are the city of Munich, country lines disappearing before his eyes, and Wonwoo's voicemail. At this point of the flight, he doubts it's Munich under his feet anymore. Phone brightness blinding his eyes, he presses the home button on repeat, and he thinks there will be crescent indents at the pad, rimmed with the fear of what Wonwoo has to say this time.

He cranes his neck up, checks out if the rest of the passengers drone in pitch-black, aside from parted windows to sleeping souls and the one in the back with book light guiding out to business class. It's all clear, he believes, to pull up the voicemail and if everything punches him like the first time, he can resort to biting his fist to fight back any words or smothering the noises with the sleeve of his jacket.

"Hey, Mingyu, um...it's Wonwoo again." _You don't have to tell me._  He wonders why Wonwoo still thinks he needs to introduce himself in each of his voicemails; they ever needed to do that, and he thought Wonwoo would remember. Do their names really fit in well with "strangers" more than anything right now?

"The phone I called you from isn't mine; it belongs to a student." _Oh?_  He quirks an eyebrow that it might be a number he won't use again. He begins to wonder why Wonwoo needed to contact him through a different number when a murmur of a chuckle eases into his ears, and it's the first time something resembles the Wonwoo he learned to understand.

"Is the old cafe okay with you?" He swallows hard at the mention of the cafe, how much the walls learned the two of them like how they learned each other. His attempts to box himself quiet must be weak ones, especially when he catches a flight attendant draping sympathy over him in the form of a tissue box at her hand and shadows casting off the tears at her own eyes. At the pause of words, a crinkle of paper into the receiver from the ocean, he plucks a couple tissues to dab at his eyes.

"I can wait for you after you return from Munich. Just pick a day, and I'll explain it all." _You don't have to explain this._  He yearns more for the reason why Wonwoo decided to heed to his own parents more than himself. But before he can list what else he wants to dig into and blame himself, his mind processes that Wonwoo _does_  want to see him, and he _wants_  to talk to him. Wonwoo _wants_ to wait for him. It might not be for much, it might not be for long, but his chest burns keeping his breaths even and the one sob from spilling past the palm over his mouth.

"See you someday. Someday soon, perhaps." _How soon is too soon for you, Wonwoo?_

The smallest sound slips from his own lips and before he can grab it back and shove it down his throat, he picks up a shuffle of thin airplane blankets against seats. He might be too loud. It might just be too much for him right now.

Standing up sends a coil at his vision, turns the airplane spinning to the side, and when he manages to find his feet planted on the floor, he hurries off to the restroom, tissue box tucked under his arm. He locks himself in the restroom, phone still pressed to his ear for a second rewind. Lights capture his movement, sheer his entire sight into white for a second, and he sits down at the cushioned seat against the wall, across porcelain and granite of the sink. His eyes fall on a red rose in the clear vase, perched by the faucet, and he taps on the voicemail for a third go.

His mind doesn't know where it wants to go when his phone asks if he wants to delete, replay, or save the message a third time, wonders how far Wonwoo's voice really is, and dials for his name. He laughs at himself for thinking Wonwoo would pick up when the hours don't line up like Lyon and Munich and whatever city this plane zips past. Not when Wonwoo must be waking up and heading out to where his life takes him at the earlier hours. Not when Mingyu isn't a part of his life like he used to be.

The laugh stings foreign at his ears. A smack of tears at his lips, drops rounding his cheeks and down to the corners of his mouth. It's misery crying out not for the fact that Wonwoo probably won't pick up, but for the fact that Mingyu called in the first place. His voice scratches its way out his throat when he heaves a breath in, drills the corner of his elbow at his thigh, and drops his face in his hand.

"Sorry, the person you're trying to reach is unavailable."

His mind doesn't know where it's heading to when the tears still run fresh from his eyes and stings his cheeks, tissue at his hand damp and fraying into white bits. His mind doesn't know where it's heading to when a sniff escapes and his phone captures it into voicemail. He takes a breath in to steady his lungs from choking out his guts, and he knows he must sound pathetic to Wonwoo right now, calling when words barely form at his lips and the only sound comes from the tears down his face.

"Wonwoo," is a punch at his throat. "It's Mingyu."

He checks the time on his phone and with a bit of luck, he guesses he would be able to see Wonwoo in the late afternoon, between breaks of night and day. "I'm on the plane to Seoul right now and if you can, if you like to, we can meet up in the afternoon."

"The old cafe is fine with me." _It always is._

"If not, it's okay," defeated from his lips, but he would rather not force the idea into Wonwoo. "We can find another time to see each other."

 

 

Eight o'clock grazes the night-hour hand when he thinks there isn't much that changed as he steps into his parents' apartment for the first time in a month. He's not sure if he can even call this his home; it may be under his name and he may be signing checks and papers to have this place, but his name barely resounds under these walls. The pin remains the same for the whole month, though, just Mingyu's birthday, and so do his parents' work schedules.

He steps into his quiet apartment, not knowing what else he expects from tonight when he never even told his parents he would be coming home a day sooner than he first believed. He wheels his luggage into his bedroom. With everything perpetually stuck to all the last times he left them, he knows his parents never bother to venture into his room. He throws open the drawers for any set of pajamas his hands can grasp onto in the dark. He changes out, slips in, and sleeps the night away.

\----

Noon brandishes the clouds into his windows and when he roams around the apartment for his parents, to greet them a hello and a "Long time no see," perhaps a mere smile or hug to greet the start of their days, he frowns at the note on the table amidst plates and bowls of a breakfast for days.

_Out grocery shopping to cook more for you_  
_Love, Mom_

He charges his phone, shuffles around the place in search for something to do that isn't throwing himself back into the sheets and wishing he can sleep some more. How many more hours can he sleep without his body telling him its had enough? When his phone garners enough life to turn on, he blinks hard for the notification from a few hours ago with Wonwoo's name on the top.

He scans around his apartment, in fear that his parents wrote that note in a lie and that they're still looming around in here somewhere.

But this isn't his university days anymore. He shouldn't have to hide from his parents anymore. He followed their words with the regret of letting Wonwoo out of his life and for the sake of his studies. Past his own crossing of the stage and the framed diploma at his hands, nothing should stop him anymore.

"Mingyu" is breathless at his ears, and he wonders what Wonwoo ran away from, "Mingyu, isn't this afternoon too soon?" An airy chuckle, the image of Wonwoo scrunching his nose up to the slight lift of his lips, he ponders if that bit of Wonwoo stayed all these years and if he can be there to prove his doubts.

"But if you're still up for it, I'll be free after five today."

Mingyu catches the time again, wonders if he can wake up from this dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel awful for not saying this in any of my updates for this fic, but i hope you guys are all doing well and enjoying summer!! i'm still over at [ tumblr](http://seokmins-thighs.tumblr.com/), [twitter,](https://twitter.com/_miniinfinity) and [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/miniinfinity)  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is the whimsiest thing i've put out so far so shield your eyes again!!
> 
> no **warnings** , like the previous times, except for my gross writing :')

After double-checking the iced coffee for some of his colleagues, Wonwoo skips out adding his own caffeine fix for his run this morning. He doesn't need coffee to keep his eyelids peeled open, not when his heart wakes up to a start long before he stepped into his office. Not with each minute he spends longer in his office, each minute he spends closer to the possible meeting with Mingyu. Behind his desk, down the hall, up the elevator, he wonders when his heart will finally find a spot to calm down.

He might be seeing Mingyu today for the first time in seven years, and his brain still runs in circles outside of the thought. He tells himself that it's okay if Mingyu can't make it today; Mingyu assured him that it's okay if they can meet up any other day. But there's something about Mingyu wanting to see him so soon after his flight, and maybe he's just too greedy for the world to spare him an illusion of his wishes granted.

Lunch resides empty in his stomach because the nerves build up in his guts. Beyond what he packed in his bag earlier and his boss calling him over to eat, what can happen in a few hours curdles the hunger out of him. He thinks the worst that can happen is Mingyu is stuck in Munich, that something happened on the way from one country and the other. It's more of a prayer to himself, to convince himself that it might flesh out into realities, when he reminds himself that he was the one who reached out to Mingyu, that he was the one who picked up the pieces they left so long ago. He was the one who sent the voicemail, saying he's free and okay with meeting up today.

 

 

Three o'clock strikes him numb to the prayers for once and just when he's ready to leaf through submissions for the day, the crinkles of the page sink into the vibrations and ringtone of his phone. He glances at it, doesn't spare a heavy thought on the caller until Mingyu's name spells out on top of his screen. His heart wracks to slow down because if he answers the call, it won't be a voicemail he'll be listening to. It will be the actual Mingyu and their first, real conversation together.

But there's just something so comforting about voicemail at this instance, with the parch of his lips for any words or courage to speak, and he allows the call to drop into the mute.

He sets down the submission about soulmates and sirens, leaves it for the voicemail notification lighting up his phone. He slips an uncertain breath in, and he hears the universal morning sound of porcelain on granite.

Mingyu's voice revels in more smooth than the last times he offered, and it twists the familiarity inside of him. The past stirs for the present to reach into old times, and maybe he's just been reaching too far.

"Hey, Wonwoo," breaches for his heart more than his ear. "After five is good for me. I hope around six will be fine with you?" A heavy sigh carries the weight of the airy, nervous chuckle, and Wonwoo finds the world blacked out as he douses himself in what he hasn't heard in years. A piece of Mingyu he once swore to guard forever and a promise broken. "I'll see you there, then."

 

 

Once his work hours diffuse into quick goodbyes at five, his heart still settles unsettled at his mouth. At the seat of his car, he passes a palm over his chest. Anxiety eats into his digits. He knows he should be nervous, but why does it feel awful to be nervous for someone who once knew how to destroy those nerves of his?

But it's been years since he and Mingyu crossed paths, let alone heard anything from each other before this video project and Jieun's existence. Mingyu might have changed since then or he might have stayed the same. He wonders if the air will singe awkward between them.

His fingertips sing him a tune of taps on the steering wheel before backing out of the parking garage and back to a place that kindles memories.

 

 

The nerves break away when he curses at the lanes of traffic crawling him to nowhere. The typical twenty-minute commute becomes thirty and thirty marches down to forty-five and before he knows it, the chill whips at his face and he cards his hand through his hair, checks out the strands standing up and waving at him from the race to the door. He manages to make it to the cafe before the promised six and perhaps, the bell above the door remains still and hushed for Mingyu.

But the fault probably lies more in Wonwoo's side because he never replied to Mingyu's voicemail or sent him a message to confirm the hour works for him.

He sighs and his eyes wander past the glass. Bustles of university students and a fret of clicking pens, pencils. Baristas running back and forth between espresso machines and display counters, trading off paper cups and plastic lids for wax paper and napkins. A kid nudging the knitted beanie above the threat of spilling into her muffin. It all rings a path in him that hasn't changed in any direction.

He catches the same bench from years ago without a single part of paint metal chipped from the travel of days, months, and years. He tells himself to not sit on the bench because it's not their university years, where Mingyu will show up in the parking lot minutes after he sits down or under the bell of the door, beckoning him inside. But when his spine curves into the backrest, a mental whiplash coaxes him down those years.

It was where he waited for Mingyu when the younger ran a little late after lectures. Their days sometimes piled up to Wonwoo sitting at this very bench, even if Mingyu tugged his hand to head inside, even if Mingyu was there before him. It was where Mingyu drilled himself into his studies and the rain mixed in with Mingyu's tears at his palms.

He tells himself he'll be seeing Mingyu. Mingyu might be in there right now, contemplating on what to order or picking out a seat in the busy cafe. Mingyu might be on his way, counting down intersections and U-turns, for a way to turn around and pile up Wonwoo's apprehensions for nothing.

The bell above the door sounds out and he turns, brain toying with him and imagining Mingyu opening the door when an elderly couple wobbles inside. The man's hand props the door open and his other grips onto the cane. Wonwoo can't help but smile at them once they manage their ways inside.

He pulls up his phone in the meantime, presses it on and off until six o'clock slaps him in the face and he notes no other cars pulling into a parking spot.

He sighs, heads inside because if Mingyu isn't here, he might as well order something to drink or wait for an vacant seat for the rest of his day. He walks in, relishes in everything that remains since his very first visit into this cafe. There's tiny library that welcomed him in his first visit to the cafe. There's also the same small table sitting besides the shelf, under the wall of quotes in that same corner. After all these years, it still spares sticky notes and pens, tape and paper, just for pasting a stranger's friendly advice or passing down words of wisdom.

He blinks twice for the barista behind the counter, the same one who handed him a menu when he couldn't decide the first thing to ever try here. He notes her hair cutting above her shoulders this time and how the tips don't hover at the small of her back anymore. And when her eyes fall on him, her smile beams more than the fairy lights strewn up and around.

He recognizes students from his talk at the university and waves at them. He doesn't take any offense when the action is returned with mere smiles; he can't blame them when textbooks call for them even more.

He scans around for a place to sit and almost on instinct, his eyes land for the one table that calls him its resident, unvisited after years. He decides against that table, though, when someone already occupies the space everyone, at one point, acknowledged as his. The man sits with his back towards him and a cup in the seat across.

After the stranger knocks his drink back, it hits him, then, with the loose silver watch on the man's right wrist, broad shoulders easing the coat off, and a weight at his palm when he props his hand up on the table and rests his chin there. It hits him then, with the creak of his neck when the stranger glances up and around, above his phone on the table.

It hits him, then, that Mingyu hasn't changed much.

The question of whether his brain is still playing with him dies out at the bump of a shoulder at his arm. Wonwoo turns to dismiss the apology, that there's nothing to be sorry for, and when his eyes search for Mingyu again, Mingyu still carries the sharp glint at his eyes, still parts his fringe near the middle when he runs a hand through, still offers the tiniest of smiles like nothing changed.

But Wonwoo makes out the lines under his eyes that even exhaustion itself can't challenge. His eyes lower to his lips parting a bit, as if wanting to say something but the thought dissipates. The smile sheds heavy with the weight of charcoal under his eyes, and Wonwoo's own smile falters at the race of his heart.

He winds his way over, albeit balancing his heart's desire to leap out of his chest and the parade of unsteady knees wanting to buckle at the nerves. He knows Mingyu's eyes are on him the entire way over, and the nerves do jump out at his dumb question of anyone sitting at this seat, since a cup occupies the space.

Mingyu shakes his head, gestures a palm up for him to take the seat. He chances for the lone paper cup in front of him, deciphers an order he wouldn't have to tell Mingyu to get.

"You remembered?" is a whisper that slips careless out of his lips, between the cup at his hand and the meeting of past and present. And he hates himself for it. He sits down at Mingyu's shrug, and he squints the brown at Mingyu's own cup. He wonders how long Mingyu has been waiting for him, and he hopes he hasn't been waiting for long.

"It's only been ten minutes," Mingyu relaxes his hopes. He mentions his mind completely letting go of heavy traffic times, especially at this time of the day, especially since it's been a while since he last came home.

Wonwoo smiles, asks if it's really been a long time since he last traced Seoul on his plane ticket.

He nods, chest baring down a sigh. "It's been too long since I've last been in Korea."

An odd silence succumbs to slight nods and shuffles of palms over laps, lifting the coffee mixed in a hint of syrup and creamer to the dot. Wonwoo fears looking up anywhere past the table.

Mingyu breaks the silence; it was something Mingyu often did between them, and it's something that hasn't changed. "Did you-did you, um..." He follows Mingyu's pointer finger aiming at his eye, at where the rim of his eye and charcoal meet.

It takes a second or two for him to register what he's asking about. He lifts the bent of his finger up to the bridge of his glasses to push it back. He tells Mingyu he changed his glasses a couple years ago, "My vision got worse looking at words all the time."

It earns a quiet smile from Mingyu, but the smile doesn't touch even halfway to his eyes. His eyes surface for the table, and Wonwoo can't help but continue outlining the hollow of his eyes and the smears of sleeplessness winding its way under. Mingyu yawns into his fist, despite taking a sip of his coffee right then, tears brimming his eyes and pricking a fingertip dry.

Wonwoo, reviving an old habit, asks if he got any sleep last night.

"I did," he answers sullen, "but maybe it's the time difference."

"What time is it in Munich right now?"

"Eleven in the morning" punches a snort of laughter from Wonwoo, and it dies the moment Mingyu smiles. The chuckle seems more distant than a table's stretch. "I woke up at two in the afternoon, so my day just started."

"And my day is just ending."

They bet into the silence again and this time, Wonwoo makes a deal with his wonderings about the other cities he visited, starting off with which cities he's been to. He lost count the Mingyu listed, eyes lingering at the sparks in Mingyu's not long after his lips almost stumble around how "Milan was really beautiful, and so was Tokyo. I mean, all the cities are, like Manila and San Francisco, Vancouver" and many more.

He pries more for each of the first cities, starting off with Milan because that's the first one he remembers. But they don't even trail his memories to Tokyo when Mingyu yawns into his fist between the syllables, despite emptying his cup of coffee and declining Wonwoo's offer of buying him a second or third.

"We can do this another time, Mingyu," Wonwoo sounds out defeated and eats up with pity. He would nag for his reasoning of this time, of why so soon when they can barely grasp at a conversation. "Maybe not so soon after your flight home."

Mingyu nods, but his eyes search far. "Another time would be nice."

After learning Mingyu paid for a ride to the cafe, Wonwoo offers to drive him back home. He thinks the sleep at Mingyu's eyes won't help him out the cafe doors in once piece. The smallest "Is that okay?" from Mingyu hurts him, for even having to ask that out of him.

They share silent smiles and stand up. Wonwoo asks where Mingyu lives now, if he signed off for a new place or still resides at Anyang.

"Anyang" lives more off a breath. "Always Anyang."

"The traffic is still bad," he mutters and before he can think this through, "I can drive you to my place."

It stabs something in him when Mingyu's jaw tightens, says he can't do that. "We're-we-"

_We broke up. We're not together anymore._

Wonwoo chokes around the swallow of reality scraping his throat. His eyes chase for the ground, the cars following the ant-line in the streets across, the sky blending in the sun and moon and the blues and oranges, anywhere besides Mingyu's words. "I know."

 

 

Mingyu's eyes refuse to abandon the pictures up and about his apartment. Cocktail parties for book releases, that one university visit and with fellow students, book readings into the night as other writers listened in story after story. He watches the corner of Mingyu's lips rise a slight at the shots of his trips back home to his family--ones with his mother's arm hooked into his, another of his brother, Bohyuk, and his father sharing their heart's laughter at the dinner table.

"It looks like you're living the life," hollows out from Mingyu, and the voice doesn't match his sentiments.

Wonwoo smiles bitter, more at the darker shadows living off Mingyu's face and contouring exhaustion into their night.

He thinks it's selfish to wish for Mingyu to stay this once.

\----

Wonwoo wakes up the next morning on his side and with a snore rattling at his ears. He pulls whatever his arm slings over closer to him, buries his face into the warmth of Mingyu's neck. His fingers span across wherever they land on and by the curve they encase, he presses his palm more into Mingyu's waist. His eyes crush shut for the sensation he lost long ago, now returning to him. The hand at the small of his back, over the worn sweatshirt, makes him miss this so much more.

He wakes up first before Mingyu, he realizes, and that's one thing that changed about them. But he can't hold that against Mingyu when he crossed time differences and continents to set from Munich to Seoul. Perhaps it's just his body catching up.

He revels in the heat a moment longer, remembers Mingyu's assurance of using his phone to call Jieun whenever he feels like it's the right moment, since he saved her number in his phone from the first call. And Wonwoo lifts his head a slight, between frays of Mingyu's old shirt and the slope of his neck, over to the nightstand, where his phone sits.

He wriggles out of Mingyu's hold somehow to sit by the nightstand, his own phone left in the kitchen. He opens it up and steals a glance at Mingyu asleep on his bed, snore blaring louder than earlier. But he smiles at the familiar knock of lips open and his chest rising and falling, hands in a dead-end search out of reach in his sleep.

A few seconds elicit a hitch in the rumble and Wonwoo watches the knit of eyebrows with his eyes shut. His lips close and his arm reaches over the covers even further.

Mingyu blinks the sleep out of his eyes, lethargy dragging them shut for a second longer than they would if he was half-awake. Wonwoo watches him sweep his entire bedroom, prop himself up on his elbows in a fret around the room. He listens to Mingyu's breathing kick up between the slit of his lips and when their eyes find their ways, when anxiety releases Mingyu, he relaxes back into his bed.

And he must be mirroring the smile on Mingyu's over the "Sorry, the person you're trying to reach is unavailable" at his ears because his smile breaks more into a silent chuckle just when Mingyu's does, too. He checks the calendar, checks the time, and maybe Jieun sits in the classroom right now.

He smiles again as Mingyu traces all over his face and despite the blur without his glasses, he tries to map out Mingyu's face, too, from where he sits, overlays the memory with the present, how long it's been since the two met up in the middle. He shakes himself out of the trance when an automated voice begins recording his voicemail, when he frees out a breath.

"Hi, Jieun," brims his heart back up to his throat, but a light kind of nerves out of him. "This is Wonwoo calling from Mingyu's phone." He lifts a palm to his forehead, an elbow digging at his knee, and he still can't believe this is happening. "I guess that says a lot already."

Mingyu buries the side of his face into his pillows, listens to the second chuckle of the morning and the rouse of his heartbeat slowing into a lullaby. Mingyu brings the sheets up to his chin, and he sinks into the plush smaller than he really is.

"I just want to thank you for letting me be a part of your video project." His eyes bounce from the corners of his periphery, doesn't last long when they surrender to Mingyu's eyes never leaving his. His neck flares up to his cheeks and he almost forgets about the voicemail.

His jaw works for coherence, to spit words out and not make a fool of himself. But one more peek at Mingyu muffling the chuckle into his sheets, he breathes out of the qualm. "I think it brought out something more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm pretty darn solid this is the end of this fic. it wasn't meant to be longer than the first chapter but here we are lmao
> 
> i hope it's clear that wonwoo does miss mingyu, but it's much more subtle, like how jieun's video project was inspired by one of wonwoo's books. maybe it doesn't say much but then again, i wasn't thinking much when i wrote this fic :'D
> 
> i still reside at [ tumblr](http://seokmins-thighs.tumblr.com/), [twitter,](https://twitter.com/_miniinfinity) and [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/miniinfinity), but i won't be on them as much at the moment as i attempt to put life together slkdfjk
> 
> anyway thank you for reading! and for putting up with the spontaneity of this fic in general


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